Numb
by leapylion3
Summary: He is numb, and this solitude, this isolation, is his morphine.


I had some Johnlock feels today, and this little plot bunny came to be.

Written in like half an hour so sorry if it sucks/looks rushed/etc.

Enjoy!

* * *

The telly's on, but John's not paying attention. The telly's almost always on these days, used as a noise-machine to lull John to sleep, since he doesn't have enough money for one of those fancy ones from the gadget stores. He stares at the program, but is not truly seeing anything. A face, another one, mouths moving. All the programs are the same to him nowadays.

Sighing, he reaches over and picks up the newspaper from the coffee table. He hadn't left the flat in a few days- he barely leaves the flat anymore-, so the paper is an old one. He rereads the economy section, and starts on the sports one, even though he couldn't care less about the latest football game.

His tea has long since gone cold, and he can barely taste it as it slides down his throat. He is numb, has been ever since his flatmate decided to jump off a building. It's been a bit more than a year- or maybe less. John's lost track, but he doesn't start counting the days; he hasn't done that for awhile. It will just enhance the pain.

He is numb, and this solitude, this isolation, is his morphine. He hasn't seen any of his friends apart from Mrs. Hudson for a couple of months. They must think he's fallen into a deep depression, or killed himself, or moved away. Mycroft, Molly and Greg all tried to help him at first, but he pushed them away. Being numb was easier.

He hears a knock at the door, but makes no move to answer. They probably just have the wrong flat. Who would want to visit Dr. John Hamish Watson while he's in this depressed state?

Whoever is knocking is a persistent bloke. John takes a deep breath and sets his cup of tea down, along with the newspaper. He looks down at what he's wearing; pajama pants with a loose-fitting white shirt. He shrugs into his robe, to at least look a bit more presentable. He tries to slick his hair back, but the uncombed locks just stay at the front, sticking upward.

"_Coming_!" he yells over the loud, never-ending knocking. He hastily ties the robe and shuffles to the door. He swings it open, and he swears he's dreaming. His knees buckle and his body threatens to collapse on the floor into a pile of gangly, non-functioning limbs.

"Judging by your state of dress, and the smell emanating from the flat, I'm assuming you haven't been out of the house in…four days?" The visitor looks around the flat, his hands still in his coat pockets. "You probably haven't slept in more than that, of course; the bags under your eyes are proof enough-"

John cuts him off with a well-placed right hook. He hears a _crack_, the sound of meat and bone making him flinch. The world's only consulting detective falls to the floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. For the first time in history, John thinks, Sherlock Holmes has been rendered speechless.

Sherlock clears his throat after the silence had become deafening- for John, at least. He wonders if Sherlock feels the same way. "I-I don't-"

"You don't _understand_?" Watson throws his hands in the air, his jaw clenched tightly. The morphine had worn off; the solitude was gone. He only has anger now. Anger, rage, hatred…_pain_. "Ladies and gentleman, once again, the mighty Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand _feelings_!"

The consulting detective rubs his bruised jaw. "John, I know that you're upset, but-"

John towers over him for once; Sherlock was always taller physically, but mentally, as well (if you could be taller mentally, John muses). "But _what_?" He realizes that the door is wide open, Sherlock lying in the doorway, and everyone in Baker Street can probably hear him. Reluctantly, he helps the detective into the flat, but doesn't pick him up from the floor. _Just like he never picked me up when I needed him_. "It's been a year, Sherlock. You think it's alright to just show up like this?" He hates himself for the crack in his voice, for the tear that he sees fall onto Sherlock's signature Belstaff coat.

Holmes stares up at him for a few moments, still rubbing his jaw. He speaks in a voice so quiet, Watson can barely hear him; "I had to come back. I couldn't leave my only friend."

John falls to the floor and he cries, allows himself the luxury of it. He cries for the first time since Sherlock's funeral, which were wasted tears, he knows now. He the door quietly clicking shut, and sees through blurred vision that the detective is sitting up, facing him. He thinks he sees tears welling in Holmes' blue eyes, but doubts it.

"Come here," Sherlock murmurs in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. John obliges, burying his face into the collar of the Belstaff coat. He breathes in the scent of his flatmate and tightly holds onto the scarf wrapped around his friend's neck. Sherlock pats his back soothingly, humming a song John remembers from when he was a boy.

Watson composes himself, ungracefully wiping his nose on his sleeve. "W-wait here." Holmes nods and lets John disengage himself from the embrace. The army doctor quickly pops into his room and retrieves the small object, then returns to Sherlock, who's still waiting in front of the door.

"I-I kept it for you," John finds it hard to keep his voice from shaking, "in case you came back." He sits down across from his flatmate and hands him the phone, his hand trembling violently.

Sherlock smiles genuinely, and Watson can confirm that there are in fact tears in the detective's eyes. "Thank you." His thumbs fly across the phone's keyboard, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Back from the dead and your first course of action is to text?" John teases, trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock chuckles. "It's important, I promise." He slides the phone into the pocket of his coat and stares at Watson in silence.

A sudden _ping _makes the army doctor jump. Slowly, never taking his eyes off Holmes, he reaches into his robe pocket and pulls out his phone. _1 New Message _flashes on the screen. His heart lodges in his throat. Unblinking, he presses _open_.

_Thank you. For believing in me._

_Thank you for everything, actually._

_-SH._

John smiles and tears roll down his cheeks, although he hasn't been this happy in such a long time. "It's good to have you back, Mr. Holmes." He laughs a little and wipes at the tears.

Holmes also has tears running down his cheeks, but he pays them no mind. His smile matches John's. "It's good to be back, Dr. Watson."

John is no longer numb, but he has found a painkiller. It may not dull everything, but he can still feel. And Dr. Watson thinks it's good to feel after all this time.


End file.
